


Right-Hand Man

by mcicioni



Category: The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, some OCs, some drinking, spoilers for the film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Five times Chris talks more than Vin, and one time he doesn't. Four "missing scenes" from the film, and two further adventures.
Relationships: Chris Adams/Vin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks, now and always, to Darcyone for betaing, and to Sindarina for inspiration.

**1: July, the first night**

There’s about half an hour before the saloon closes. The three Mexicans have gone off to wherever it is that they are spending the night – Chris suspects that it’s a barn or a stable, and knows that their pride would be hurt if he asked. He and Vin are having one last drink and planning their next move. There are three of them now, and they have decided that six hired guns are as many as the village can afford – if Calvera has thirty or more, they’ll just have to train the villagers and find ways of lowering the odds.

“Your friend Harry,” Vin asks, leaning back in his chair. “Why wasn’t he here with you and the Mexicans?”

Chris blows out a pensive puff of smoke. “Big poker game going on in the other saloon.” He doesn’t say that Harry tends to see all Mexicans as naïve, gullible semi-savages. “But he gave me a heads-up. There’s another friend of his around here, a gunman called O’Reilly. Flat broke, working for his keep on a farm north of here. I’m going to ride out tomorrow morning, it should take me less than a day to find him.”

“Harry goin with you, or is he leavin you to do all the heavy work on your own?”

Chris frowns a little. “He and I go back a long way. We met in the war.” A young soldier from Louisiana and a shrewd corporal from Colorado, neither of whom had much of a home to go back to after Appomattox. “We did some jobs together, when we came across each other, in the past fifteen years.” He sees the way Vin looks him over, with genuine interest but also a trace of a knowing smirk, and returns the look coolly, withholding any further information about what sort of jobs he and Harry did together, and Harry’s pipe dreams of hidden treasures. “I trust him,” he says firmly. “He’d never send me into a trap.”

“Still, goin by yourself might not be all that safe,” Vin counters, easy but determined. “We know nothin about O’Reilly – he may see you as competition, and take a pot shot at you before you have a chance to say howdy. Seems to me you need a backup. Someone …”

Chris knows very little about Vin, probably not even his name – _Make it Vin_ can mean several things, none of which reassuring. He’s a drifter and a gambler. He’s also someone casually willing to risk his life to help a colleague with a gratuitous good deed. But what isn’t casual in the life of a hired gun?

Yet, he would like the company. And, possibly, Vin’s perspective on O’Reilly.

“All right,” he says, and downs the rest of his drink. “Meet me here at dawn. I’ll buy you breakfast before we set out.”

Vin grins as he empties his glass. “You saw me lose everythin I had at the crap table, right?”

Chris just nods and stands up. Vin follows him out of the saloon: “G’night,” he says, and for a moment his expression is warm, his smile the opposite of Harry’s wily grimaces. 

“Goodnight,” Chris answers, meaning it. It’s absurd, considering where they’re headed – or maybe it’s not that absurd, _because of_ where they’re headed – but for the first time in who knows how long, he’s looking forward to the next day. 

  
  


**2: July, two days later**

The railhead is a couple of miles out of town, so they ride instead of walking. The heat is bearable, and there isn’t all that much dust. Not yet – they’re almost within breathing, and smelling, distance of three hundred head of cattle ready to be shipped north by the Rio Grande Cattle Company.

“This Britt,” Vin is riding beside Chris, and turns slightly towards him as he speaks, “does he usually drive herd between …” a moment’s pause, “his _other_ jobs?”

“He takes whatever he can get. Like the rest of us,” Chris says shortly. He has known Britt, on and off, for about ten years, and he’s not willing to discuss him. When there’s a job to be done, Britt turns up, fights incredibly fast and competently, and disappears. All gunmen tend to speak as little as possible, but Britt hardly says anything to anyone under any circumstances. His past is a total mystery, his present a matter of conjecture, and his future is lonely and bleak – the norm for men in their line of work.

“I’ll just say this: I’ve never met anyone better, with gun or rifle. And knife.”

Vin nods wordlessly. This time he hasn’t asked or suggested that he should tag along, he just turned up as Chris was about to set out. Chris is pleased: they’re still two men short, and Vin was good backup with O’Reilly, keeping right behind Chris, speaking in counterpoint with him, knowing when to push and when to quit. 

They get to the cattle pens, and the moment they dismount – a little away from the drovers sprawled all over the front yard – they find themselves having to watch a challenge. Britt’s knife buries itself into the post as the other man’s bullet hits Britt’s tin cup; a couple of minutes and very few words later, the challenge becomes a duel to the death, swift and totally pointless. Chris hears Vin’s sharp intake of breath behind him as Britt’s knife flies into the other man’s chest, but there’s nothing to say, they are looking for competent killers, and one of the most competent killers in the territory is walking towards them, movements leisurely and eyes blank.

  
  


As the two of them ride back to the _cantina_ where they are all staying – there are only three rooms, barely enough for the four of them plus the Mexicans – Vin does not comment or speak; his face is shuttered, as if he were trying to work things out and failing. Chris does a little reflecting of his own, and before they’re in sight of the _cantina_ he draws rein, stops and turns to Vin.

“It’s part of who we are, you know that,” he says slowly, and when Vin makes an interrogative noise he goes on, “A man’s good, and sooner or later the word spreads. And then some men can’t rest until they’ve tested themselves against him.” He takes a long breath. “It doesn’t always end with a dead body. But more often than not it does.” He looks over at his companion. “Ever happen to you?” 

“No. Hope to hell it won’t. You?”

“Yeah. Twice.” He looks at the dusty road ahead. “Best not to get a reputation.” He senses Vin’s eyes on him, but can’t meet them, not right now, when the memories he has recalled are churning in his guts. “Let’s get back to the others. There’s other names we can come up with.”

  
  


**3: July, the same night**

Chris closes the door of their room after Lee has gone off to settle the bill for his last two days’ room and board. He feels vaguely sorry for the three Mexicans, piling into one double bed next door to them, and for Britt, who is probably bunking on the floor in the room shared by Harry and O’Reilly. He is also aware that the disagreement between him and Vin on whether to take Lee along is still hanging in the air between them, as they are getting ready for bed, neither looking at each other nor looking away from each other.

He sighs almost imperceptibly. If he had been doing the recruiting on his own, no discussions would be necessary. They’re not necessary now either – of course he has the last word on who goes and who doesn’t – but the man who has quickly, seamlessly become his right hand deserves better.

Vin is standing between the two beds; he has taken his shirt off and is rinsing his mouth with water. Chris addresses his back, broad, bare, marked by two scars. He would like to ask how Vin got them, but he won’t. “Tell me something.”

Vin goes to the open window, spits his mouthful of water out and turns around. “Sure.”

“Today you saw Britt kill a man. Yet you’re pleased he’s coming along. You trust him more than Lee. Why’s that?”

Vin frowns, sits down on his bed, scratches a couple of bug bites on his chest and ponders.

“Trust’s a gut thing, either it’s there or it ain’t,” he says eventually. “Britt didn’t have a choice with the other fella. And he talked straight, when he turned us down and later, when he changed his mind. Lee … he was on the run, and he didn’t _ask_ you if he could come along, he _told_ you. _I’ll have the money before I leave, Pick me up at the dry wash_.” He shrugs. “But what you say goes, I guess.” He slides out of his levis and throws them on top of his shirt on one of the two chairs. “Now’s my turn. Tonight’s kid … was he one of the men you told me about, the ones who hope to test themselves?”

Chris has removed shirt and pants and neatly folded them on the other chair. He lights the last cigar of the day and takes the first, strong puff. “Not quite. He wanted to join us. I tested him. He wasn’t fast enough.”

Vin nods, but doesn’t leave it at that. “Hats off to the way you handled him, but you know that this strategy only works under two conditions.”

“What?”

“One, you know that, whatever happens, you won’t kill the other fella. Two, the other fella knows that, whatever happens, he won’t kill you.” Vin stops, runs a hand through his hair. “Tonight, for you and that kid, it worked. Today, for Britt and the other fella, it couldn’t have worked. And Britt knew it.”

“Yeah.” Chris sits down on his bed, opposite Vin. Their knees brush. “I learned what works and what doesn’t the hard way, about ten years ago.” He’s not sure why he’s saying this, and whether he wants to go on. And he’s not happy about how damn chatty he gets the moment Vin starts asking questions. He gives Vin a flat stare. “I worked as a bounty hunter in Arizona,” he says slowly, and the words come out one after another and start to string together, to build some meaning, however uncomfortable. “Brought several men back. Alive if I could. Got paid, moved on. But after six months I quit.”

Vin looks at him in silence. Chris takes another long puff on his cigar.

“In each town, they couldn’t wait to see the back of me. Like there was no difference between me and the man I was taking in.” He crushes the end of his cigar against one of the metal posts of the bed frame, staring straight ahead, seeing the fear and contempt in the eyes of sheriffs, bartenders, passers-by.

Vin nods, and then gives him a small grudging smirk. “Yeah. I did that a couple times too. I owed money, easy jobs, quickly over.” He scratches at another bug bite, somewhere around his waist. There’s a thin line of fair hair that starts from his navel and disappears into the top of his long johns. “Loneliest I ever felt.” He doesn’t give any further details, lies down and throws the blanket over himself.

Chris wonders how many other scraps of information he will have learned about Vin by the time this job is over – assuming, just for the sake of discussion, that both of them will still be alive at the end. He stands up and gets into his bed. “We’ll be having plenty of company in the next few weeks. One way or another. Good night.”

Vin’s “G’night” is quiet, and there’s something like a half-smile in it. Chris rolls onto his side to face the wall. Tonight he can sleep soundly, no need to be on his guard. And he’s quite sure that tonight there won’t be any dreams of men and women staring at him in fear or turning their faces away from him.

  
  


**4: End of August, just before they must leave the village**

“Didn’t want you to think you were the only sucker in town.”

Vin leaves, and Chris remains where he is, without turning around. Surprised and bemused by what he’s just heard, but this is definitely the wrong moment for heart-to-hearts. He quickly walks to Miguel’s house: it’s empty, Miguel has been captured with Hilario and a couple of others, tomorrow they will be Calvera’s _little gesture to show these people who the real boss is_. In the room that Miguel’s family vacated for him, he stuffs his spare pants, underwear and two shirts into his saddlebags, his jaw tensing and his mouth setting into a straight line. Outside, Calvera’s men are shouting orders and curses; not one voice raised against theirs, not one act of resistance. Just children crying and women sobbing.

The floorboards creak slightly. Vin doesn’t come in, he just leans against the doorframe, saddlebags slung over his shoulder, not daunted by Chris’s irritated look. They stand in silence, half-listening to the noises outside.

Vin oversteps again. “You’re thinkin that as soon as you can, you’ll come right back here,” he says flatly, and once the words are out Chris knows that they have given shape to an unformed and unacknowledged notion that had been lurking in his mind ever since he’d taken his gunbelt off. Yes, he will go back, with or without any of the others. He owes it to all the people he’s let down, the villagers and his own men. 

“No concern of yours,” he snaps, remembering Vin’s troubled face as he voiced his doubts before they rode out to get Calvera’s horses. Chris had put his foot down, like that _fella from El Paso_ who jumped on a cactus: _it seemed like a good idea at the time_. Now, the best he’ll be able to do is get back to the village, immediately make a beeline for Calvera and take him out. It probably won’t make a big difference in this village, but it may make Calvera’s men think twice about raiding the next one.

And for him, it will be enough, to have died for something he still believes in, as well as against something that he still is.

“You may be right there,” Vin says, easy, conversational. “But if you’re set on gettin your head blown off, someone oughta come along and witness it.” He meets Chris’s glare evenly. “So that your gravestone may read _Here lies a man who wouldn’t bend with the breeze_.”

No point in telling him to shut up. No point in explaining anything, either. But Vin is his right hand, he has been since day one. And the two of them are, in all likelihood, talking to each other for the last time. 

He lights a cigar, fleetingly wondering if it too will be his last. “Here lies a man who never learned how to bend.” He allows his mouth to quirk a little. “A man brought up with words like Southern pride, the valour of Southern men, the glorious cause of the Confederacy.” He blows a smoke ring. “Long before Fort Sumter I knew that the glorious cause was a lost cause in every way. The North had industry, resources and leadership, and an army of free men. We had good land, a good climate, and an economy based on three million slaves.” 

Vin nods. “And …?”

“And, when the war broke out I left Louisiana and enlisted in the Union Army.” He half-smiles at Vin’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “And when the war was over, I had nowhere to go. So I drifted for nearly twenty years.”

He steps closer to Vin and for a moment rests his hand on his shoulder. “You’re not the worst man who’s ever backed me.” He gives the shoulder a light clap, almost a caress. “Take care of yourself.”

He walks out into the street without waiting for a response. Chico, Britt, Bernardo and Harry are already sitting on their horses, surrounded by several of Calvera’s men. Lee is slowly walking towards his horse. Chris hears Vin behind him, his steps a little uncertain at first, then steady, determined. He doesn't know what he hopes Vin will choose, self-preservation or solidarity. _You can’t afford to care_ twists briefly inside his guts, before he nods to his men and mounts up.


	2. Chapter 2

**5: Early September - one week later**

The border town hasn’t changed since they last were here, a couple of months ago. No conflicts brewing, and nobody seems to have recognised them from the last time, or mentioned it openly, for which they are both grateful. Between them, they have just enough for one night in a shared room and a couple of meals apiece. The hotel also provides food. They have eaten better, they have eaten worse.

They have survived, uninjured except for Vin’s thigh wound – more than a scratch, less than life-threatening. And killed several men each, and lost four companions. Neither of them feels much like talking. In the last two days, since they left the village, communication has been pared down to basics, _let me have a look at your leg_ and _I’ll start the fire_ and _let’s get some sleep_. When they reached a fork in the road – left to the border town, right to the Rio Grande – Chris jerked his chin to the left and glanced at Vin, Vin shrugged, and they went back to where they had set out from. 

And now each of them has to make a decision. This thought has been sitting at their table while they were eating and looking over their shoulders while they were playing cards. “Last game about cleaned us out,” Vin says between mouthfuls of chili. “But I couldn’t say for sure who was cheatin.” He glances at Chris, and there’s something in his eyes besides mild worry – a kind of tension, thoughts slugging one another out inside his head. “Got any ideas on what …” he pauses, frowns a little, starts again, “what else there is to do around here?”

Chris shakes his head. “Maybe we could find …” He stops short, narrowing his eyes; Vin puts his spoon down and sits up. The two men who have just walked in – one tall and lean, with a scar across a cheek, the other shorter, stocky, with sandy hair and a shotgun – don’t look like drovers or ranch hands. They look like men in their own line of work, and there’s purposefulness in the way they stalk up to the bar and order whisky. The only other customers besides Chris and Vin – a couple of drovers and an old barfly – almost freeze in fear.

“We’re lookin for a man called Lee Boyle,” the stocky one says, loud enough to be heard from one end of the saloon to the other. Vin frowns at the last name. Chris gives him a small nod – yes, _that_ Lee. In their line of work, last names aren’t often necessary, and often men give names that are not the names they were born with.

The bartender is an older man, thin and stooping; he pours them drinks and shakes his head. “No idea.”

“He’s wanted here. And in Albuquerque,” the stocky man adds, almost as loud.

“He’s dead,” Chris says, without getting up. 

“I wasn’t talkin to you,” the stocky man snaps back. The bartender repeats “No idea," blinking a few times. The tall man says nothing, but reaches over, grabs the bartender by his vest and backhands him once, twice. “Lee Boyle,” he repeats with every slap.

The stocky man is still bellied up against the bar, downing his drink. Careless: he just glanced at the people in the room and came to the wrong conclusions. Chris stands up swiftly and noiselessly, crosses the room in three silent strides, lightly taps the tall man’s shoulder and hits him hard across the face as he turns around, forcing him to release the bartender, who hightails it out of the saloon as fast as his shaking legs can carry him. The stocky man turns around, finally deciding to level his shotgun at the customers, but freezes as he finds himself looking straight into the barrel of Vin’s Colt.

“Who the hell are you?” the stocky man growls. His companion is busy trying to staunch the blood flowing out of his nose.

“We can ask the same question,” Vin says, in the easy-going way Chris has learned to recognise as dangerous. “Put the scattergun down.”

The stocky man scowls but complies, then slowly slides his left hand into the pocket of his jacket and produces three or four crumpled sheets of paper. “Our temporary commissions as deputy sheriffs.”

“Fine,” says a calm voice from the saloon doors, “Yeah, there was a reward on Boyle. For the Johnson brothers. But I know he’s dead. And I have the authority to ask you to leave. And that’s what I’m doing.” The sheriff is in his fifties, with greying reddish hair and thick eyebrows. His walnut-handled Colt is still in its holster, but the holster is tied down and the sheriff’s hand is not far from the butt of the gun. Behind him, the bartender scuttles back in, keeping well away from Chris, Vin and the bounty hunters.

“Lee Boyle died last week,” Chris says. “In a shootout in a Mexican village. My friend and I were there when it happened.” He glances sideways at Vin, who nods at the word _friend_ and at Chris’s summary.

“Heard about that,” the sheriff says. “Some friendly _rurales_ let me know that the village people and half a dozen hired guns took out a bunch of thirty-odd _bandidos_.” He looks Chris and Vin over. “You’d be willing to sign a statement about Boyle, with your names and the name and location of the village?”

Chris and Vin nod assent. “That’s good enough for me,” the sheriff says, then turns to the bounty hunters. “Now, you two. We’re not partial to your kind in our town. Seeing as it’s late, you can spend the night in one of my cells, free of charge. Or you can just hit the road. And keep going.”

He stands on the boardwalk, hands on hips, until the two men have ridden out of sight. Then he walks back into the saloon, gets a bottle and three glasses from the beaming bartender and motions Chris and Vin to a table.

“I was out of town six weeks ago, when old Sam got buried on Boot Hill,” he opens bluntly. “But I sure heard about it when I got back. And then the _rurales_ sent me that report.” He pours and lifts his glass. “I feel as if I know you already.” He takes a small sip. “Especially you, Adams.”

Chris meets his eyes unflinchingly. The sheriff continues unperturbed: “If I thought hard enough, I might recall a couple of old Wanted dodgers, but there haven’t been any new ones in … oh, over ten years.” He turns to Vin. “I don’t recall any dodgers on you, but I get the impression that the two of you sort of come as a package deal.”

“ _Deal_ ?” Vin gulps down his drink. “Sounds like you’re about to offer us jobs as your deputies.”

“Close enough. Sheriff in Silver City's a friend of mine. Grant County’s big, he needs three deputies. Of the three he had, one’s good, one’s seventy and half deaf, and one was shot dead last week.” He pauses. “He needs two reliable men, that won’t go running at the first sign of trouble.”

Chris and Vin exchange a silent glance.

“You need to talk it over, I’ll leave you to it.” The sheriff stands up, leaving the bottle on the table. “See you first thing tomorrow. We can get those statements about the late Mr Boyle as well.”

Vin pours himself another drink the moment the doors swing shut behind the sheriff. He lifts both eyebrows and whistles, long and soft. “Wanted dodgers, huh?”

“Cut it out,” Chris says, not too sternly. “Half the men in our line of work had their faces on dodgers for one thing or another, and you know that.” A beat. “As I told you, Harry took me under his wing after the war. We did all sorts of jobs. Including a few banks and some cattle rustling. But it didn’t take me long to realise that, whatever it was that I wanted, an outlaw’s life wasn’t it.”

“Same here.” Another pause. “What _did_ you want?”

Chris stares straight ahead. He resents anyone prying, but this is Vin, his right hand, the man whose questions Chris hasn’t regretted answering. He begins to speak, and his words are as precise and as honest as he can make them, and all the more painful for that. “I wanted to stay as far away as possible from the places and people I’d left behind. A wife, children … never seemed like a serious prospect for the kind of man I was. Building a home for myself … not worth the trouble. So …” he sums things up, short and to the point, “I wasted nearly twenty years, about half my life.”

Vin’s voice is quieter, more tentative as he asks another question. “And now … you goin to take up the sheriff’s offer? Go to Silver City, see if there’s any action there?”

Chris takes out a cigar, spits the tip out, lights it, takes a slow puff. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On who the other deputy’d be.” Vin’s eyes light up a little, and then more as Chris goes on. “Someone I trusted and who trusted me. Someone who could handle himself well, who could back me up, and I him.” He takes another puff, with the hint of a smile. “Someone not afraid of asking questions, or of speaking out when necessary.”

Vin laughs, short and warm. “In other words, someone who’d come along as part of a package deal.” He cheerfully lifts his glass to Chris. “And here I was, tryin to find ways of sayin that I could give Silver City a try, if you were.” He takes a breath. “Doin what we’re good at and gettin paid for it without … “ He gestures vaguely with a hand, knowing that he doesn’t need to explain.

“Don’t get your hopes up. It may not work.”

Vin puts his glass down. For a moment his fingertips brush Chris’s wrist. “You mean, one of us may get bored and pull up stakes? Or, the Silver City sheriff may remember those dodgers and not be as open-minded as the sheriff here?”

“Or, we may end up shooting each other,” Chris says, straight-faced.

Vin lightly kicks Chris’ foot under the table. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“All right. We need to get some sleep.” For some reason, even that sounds like making a decision.

They go up the stairs to their room. Chris opens the door, waves Vin in, slides the bolt across the door and turns around.

Vin hasn’t moved towards their beds; he’s standing right in front of Chris, not giving him space to shift. He swallows, says, “We’ve been workin up to this for a while,” steps forward, takes Chris’s head in both hands and kisses him fully on the mouth.

It’s not a shock, it’s a sensation of lightness as Chris opens his lips to Vin’s warm ones, the permanent tension in his body beginning to dissolve as he tastes whisky on Vin’s tongue, and smells two days’ travel on his shirt, and allows himself to close his eyes and feel the warmth radiating from Vin’s body.

He pulls back and opens his eyes. In Vin’s smile there’s a mixture of relief, joy, hope mixed with triumph. Chris looks him over, lifts a hand and strokes his face, his thumb brushing the first faint creases across Vin’s broad forehead, the deeper creases at the side of his mouth, the dimple in his left cheek. 

“I like what I see,” Chris says.

“Good. So now we can see _more_ of each other,” Vin laughs, moving back a little and beginning to unbutton Chris’s shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

**6: Early February, six months later**

Chris puts another log into the stove before writing the last few sentences of his report – how two local farmers were prevented from shooting at each other over a gap in the fence between their spreads. He closes the ledger. Yesterday he dealt with a violent husband who broke his wife’s arm; last week the sheriff and Vin had to ride to the silver mine because brawls were breaking out between miners who wanted to stop working and miners who were afraid to. The work is not as boring as he and Vin had at first feared, and going for three, four weeks at a time without shooting anyone is still something unfamiliar, but they don’t mind it at all.

Hoofbeats clatter outside the office door and stop. Two horses. Chris hears curses and a brief scuffle; he goes to the door and lets in Steve, the third deputy, and the man he’s bringing in. “Horse thief,” Steve explains as they open a cell and shove him inside. “Farmer wanted to geld him, I had to threaten to lock _him_ up as well.”

Steve sits down and opens the report ledger. He’s in his late twenties, a father of three who only had four years’ schooling and is determined to improve himself. “How d’you spell _apprehended_ ?”

“What’s wrong with _arrested_ ?” Chris tells him how to spell the longer word anyway.

Steve is duly grateful. “Go on home, I’m on night shift. See you tomorrow. Before you go … how d’you spell _recalcitrant_ ?"

Chris walks out of town. The boardwalks are slippery – the January snow has melted and there’s a faint cold drizzle. Humidity is supposed to be good for growing vegetables; he thinks of Vin’s attempts with cabbages and assorted beans, and snorts quietly to himself.

“Good evening, Mister Adams.” As he walks past Benson’s Emporium, he sees Mrs Monaghan and her two little girls. He tips his hat; they stop in front of him, blocking his path. A little chat seems inevitable.

“Roof still leaking?” Mrs Monaghan’s mother was getting frail at the time when Chris and Vin arrived in Silver City; she moved in with her daughter, and Chris and Vin started renting her house. This makes Mrs Monaghan feel entitled to enquire about housekeeping matters every time she meets either of them.

“We’re going to fix it soon,” Chris reassures her. “It’s not easy, we don’t often have a free shift at the same time.”

“And how’s the vegetable garden going?”

“Not bad,” Chris says, thinking about the spindly beans and the snail-eaten cabbages, and Vin’s amused drawl, _better than nothin, friend_ . “We could do with some advice about fertilisers and snails.” He’s allowed to walk away after Mrs Monaghan tells him that she’ll definitely drop in next Sunday after church to let them have the benefit of her gardening knowledge. The drizzle is turning into rain. He pulls up the collar of his jacket and walks faster.

The porch of the house is rickety and the paint is peeling. In the kitchen, Vin is elbow-deep in suds, deftly wielding a bar of soap on some shirts lying on the washboard. “Pity she didn’t offer to do our laundry,” he deadpans when Chris tells him of Mrs Monaghan’s forthcoming visit. “Let her see this,” he adds, gesturing to the two buckets and one chamber pot that are scattered on the floor, under the holes in the roof.

“We need to fix the damn roof in the next couple of days,” Chris says. He takes his badge off his shirt and slips it into a pocket before opening a can of beans and slicing bacon into a frying pan. Vin makes a vague noise of assent, but does not continue the conversation. He doesn’t say much during supper either, just quips, “On Sunday, let’s make sure both bedrooms look lived in, or else,” as they are undressing. Chris doesn’t push; whatever it is that’s bothering his friend, it’ll come out in its own time.

Vin, as usual, goes to sleep one minute after his head hits the pillow, despite anything that may be on his mind. He’ll sleep through the night, snoring softly. Chris lies on his back, counting the cracks in the ceiling and mulling things over – the job, the house, and Vin, not necessarily in that order.

He now knows several things about Vin. That he used to be careless about money, losing a week’s wages at a faro table or a poker game, or – once, soon after they’d left the village – giving twenty dollars to a girl he’d spent the night with, because she acted sad to see him go. That now he no longer spends nights with girls. And that he’s started saving, a bit here and a bit there, his wages, and the money he occasionally wins at poker.

There have been other discoveries. The way Vin sprawls on top of Chris and smiles, warm and a little smug, before taking Chris in hand and pleasuring him, fast and a little rough, the way Chris likes it. The way he lies on his back and thrusts with all of his not inconsiderable strength when Chris is lying on top of him. The way he exhales after pleasure, eyes closed, before he opens them and looks at Chris. 

So far, so good. But Chris doesn’t really know Vin. His right-hand man, who has so much in common with him, yet is so different from him. This man who is so good at asking questions and so skilled at giving answers that are half deflections. This man who talks quite easily, yet says little that is significant about his past.

Does any of this matter? Chris isn’t sure. Especially when he thinks back on his life before he drifted into that border town, and compares it with his life now. He rolls over on his side, tells himself to stop thinking, and goes to sleep.

When he wakes up, it’s past dawn, the snoring is much closer, and a sinewy arm covered in soft blond hairs is thrown across his waist. He gazes at it for a little while before dislodging it and shaking Vin’s shoulder: “Hey. Time to get up, we both got the morning shift.”

  
  


“Don’t think I ever met either of them, but there’s somethin about them I don’t trust.” Leaning against the doorframe and looking out into the street, Vin is studying two new arrivals – men in their thirties, dressed in range clothes, wearing gunbelts. They are strolling past the saddle shop, the bank, the office of the _Silver City Clarion_ ; at Rosita’s Diner they turn around, cross the street and stroll back up, past the women’s dress shop, the telegraph office and the saloon. “I’ve a hunch that they’re up to no good.”

“There are always men drifting through. Ranch hands looking for work. Men trying to get jobs on the railway. Even one or two footloose hired guns.” Chris gives Vin a sideways look, and Vin laughs. 

“Just an itch between my shoulderblades,” Vin insists. “Come on, let’s get that pile of Wanted dodgers.”

They find their men soon enough: Peter Morrison is wanted for armed robbery, Scott Dutton for grievous bodily harm. “They’re plannin somethin for sure,” Vin says. “Let’s keep our eyes peeled.”

After dinner, four more men drift into town, separately this time: two are Mexican and middle-aged, the others are younger and American. The Wanted posters reveal that one of the Mexicans is called Rico Gomez and is wanted on both sides of the river for assorted thefts and robberies, and that one of the Americans – tall, handsome John Abbott – is wanted for assault and rape. The sheriff tells Vin to wander around town, unobtrusively keeping track of whether all six newcomers ever get together. Chris has the night shift in the office, and nothing goes wrong anywhere.

“Good mornin to you,” is Steve’s cheerful greeting as he steps into the office to relieve Chris. “My father-in-law came to supper last night, and said he was pleased Hattie and I had such a … harmonious relationship. That means we’re gettin on well, right?”

“Right.” Chris writes _harmonious_ on a slip of paper and passes it to Steve, who beams at him: “Much obliged.” He sits down and starts laboriously copying the word, but can’t finish the job because fast hoofbeats pound towards their office, a horse neighs as it comes to an abrupt stop, and a dishevelled man bursts in. 

“They’re robbin the bank in Pinos Altos,” he shouts.

“Damn. I’ll get the sheriff and Vin.” Steve jumps up and heads for the door. “No time to gather a posse, it’ll have to be the four of us.”

“Three.” The sheriff walks in and splays a hand on Steve’s chest. “Go and wake Bill at the telegraph office. Tell him to get on the wire and make sure that fresh horses and capable men are waiting for us in Pinos Altos. Then you sit here in the office and keep your eyes open in case there’s any trouble.” He shoves his hat back. “Chris, get Vin. It’s nearly eight miles to Pinos Altos. We push our horses hard, it’ll take us an hour to get there. Then we start trackin the robbers.” He turns to the man who brought the news. “You comin with us?”

The man looks sheepish. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to rest a while. I ain’t much good as a tracker or with a gun.”

The journey to Pinos Altos, with the road climbing gently, open range on their left, stands of pines and oaks on their right, the mist-covered mountain tops on the horizon, would be a pleasurable leisurely ride, but the three of them are trying to cover the distance without killing the horses, and can’t admire the landscape or indulge in conversation. 

Pinos Altos is a small mining town. When the lawmen from Silver City ride in, they see no signs of unrest or violence: the main street is peaceful, the citizens are going about their business, there isn’t any excitement anywhere. In front of the bank they do see the fresh horses and the men they have requested, but they’re bewildered and annoyed, especially the bank manager.

“What’s this about my bank being robbed?” he demands even before the lawmen have come to a stop. “Your information was wrong. Nobody has threatened anyone.”

The sheriff frowns, embarrassed and angry. “So why the hell did that fella …?” He stops short, drawing in breath. Chris and Vin exchange one swift glance, the memory of the surprise sprung on them by Calvera flaring up in their minds.

“They hit _another_ bank. _Our_ bank.”

They ride back to Silver City as if the devil were at their heels, pushing the fresh horses to the limit. The shock and fear on the faces of the crowd gathered before the bank tell them most of the story before they dismount.

The sheriff glances at the crowd. “Where’s Deputy Perkins?” he asks, his voice rising.

“At the doctor’s house. Got shot in the chest,” someone says, and then a few people all speak at the same time. “Six men.” “They took hostages. The bank manager and two women.” “Miss Hall, the cashier, and Mrs Valenzuela, who was in the bank.”

“Where’s the man who brought in the news?”

They look at one another, shake their heads, shrug. “Who knows.” “Gone.” “No hide or hair of him.”

“Fresh horses,” Chris snaps.

“Saddled and ready,” says Vin from the door of the livery stable, walking towards them and leading three horses.

“Three of us, six of them,” says the sheriff. “Let’s go. Those of you who pray – say a word for Steve.”

  
  


They head up the slope of the hill, making their way through scrub trees and small clusters of pines. It’s not snowing or raining, which is lucky, but it’s cold, their breath freezes in the air. They ride with their eyes to the ground, trying to spot freshly-broken branches, or horse droppings, or hoofprints.

“Seven horses,” Vin says, down on one knee, studying a cluster of horseshoe prints. “Headin east, towards the open range.”

“Eight,” the sheriff says, standing behind him. He’s a skilled tracker, having spent some time at an Indian reservation when he was younger. “One with a heavier load. Probably a robber riding double with one of the women.” 

“The hostages will slow them down,” Chris says. He glances up at the sky: it’s getting darker and cloudier. “They’ll have to stop somewhere for the night.”

“Yeah,” says the sheriff. He thinks quickly. “There’s an old assay shack about a mile north-east of here. Worth a look.”

There’s still some pale winter sunlight when they sight the shack, standing lopsidedly against an almost vertical sandstone wall. Two small windows, a door half off its hinges, a rail where eight horses are tied. They rein in among a big stand of pine trees, making sure that their horses are out of sight. Chris ties his holster down and draws his Colt; Vin does likewise.

“You in there.” The sheriff’s voice is loud and calm. “This is Sheriff Roberts. Lay down your guns and come out with your hands up.”

A shaky woman’s voice screams, “Don’t try anything. We’re here on the floor,” and then there’s the sound of a fist connecting with flesh, another scream, then silence.

“Miss Hall, the cashier,” the sheriff says, shaking his head.

“She told us where the hostages are. Away from the doors and windows,” Chris says.

The sheriff nods. “So our best bet is to rush in at once from all sides.”

Vin moves, swift and noiseless, towards the window on the right. Equally swift and noiseless, Chris goes towards the window on the left. The sheriff goes towards the door with his Winchester, moving quickly from one tree to another.

All three of them have experience and steady nerves, and it all happens fast. The window on the left begins to inch upwards. Chris squeezes off two shots through its pane, and a man goes down. Taking advantage of the distraction, the sheriff kicks the door in and shoots Abbott, who is standing over the hostages. Chris and Vin rush in behind the sheriff and assess the situation with a glance. The robbers haven’t bothered to tie the women; the bank manager’s hands are tied behind his back, and there’s a stain between his legs and down a trouser leg. There’s another, very young, man, sitting beside Mrs Valenzuela, hunched forward; his gun is on the floor between him and Mrs Valenzuela, and she’s talking to him, softly, without touching him.

Chris and Morrison take aim at each other and shoot almost at the same time; Morrison goes down, his bullet whistles past Chris’s side and thuds into a wall. Dutton fires at the sheriff, who swears and clutches his side. Vin covers Chris as he grabs the sheriff and pushes him into a corner; it’s a flesh wound, it can wait. Vin’s gun blasts twice and Dutton crumples to the ground, but Rico Gomez is standing beside Dutton, gun pointing towards Vin. Chris and Vin fire at the same time, but when their bullets hit Gomez he is already falling, crashing face forward onto the floor, a red stain spreading on his back.

Behind him, still sitting on the floor, Miss Hall is staring down at the smoking derringer in her right hand. Vin bends down, helps her to her feet, supports her because her legs are shaking wildly. She is short, plump, in her forties. There’s a large red bruise on one side of her face, and drying blood near her nose.

“They never searched me. They didn’t expect …” A few tears begin to run down her cheeks. “My father gave me this when I started working in the bank,” she whispers. “He said that a maiden lady should be able to protect herself,” and she wipes her eyes. Then she gently frees herself, rushes to where the sheriff is sitting and, blushing, begins to tear strips from one of her petticoats.

Chris cuts the leather thongs tying the bank manager’s hands and walks over to the young man and Mrs Valenzuela. The young man picks up his gun from the floor and hands it to Chris; his face is riddled with small red-and-yellow pimples. “Please don’t shoot me,” he whispers. “This lady here said that if I didn’t fire my gun, I would be all right.” He looks at Mrs Valenzuela, his mouth slightly open. “She said her name was Carmen and asked me what my name was.”

She stands up unassisted, tall and dignified. “I have two sons,” she says simply.

  
  


It’s past ten o'clock, the excitement has died down. The sheriff and Steve will be all right. The sheriff’s wound was a deep graze that did not shatter any bones; Chris and Miss Hall managed to stop the bleeding while Vin raced back for the doctor. Steve was very lucky, the chest shot didn’t hit any large veins, but he will be out of action for at least a month.

“He asked me how you spell _artery_ ,” Chris says, blowing out a relieved puff of cigar smoke. He and Vin are sitting in the office together, neither wants to go home alone.

“We’ll need a new deputy for a month or so,” Vin says. “I nominate Miss Hall.” But the joke falls flat, they’re both tired, weary.

They glance at the young man locked up in one of the cells. He’s sitting dejectedly on his cot, staring at the wall opposite him. “You were damn lucky too,” Chris says to him. “Hope you’ll learn something from today.”

“We’ll testify at your trial, we’ll say that you were the only one who never fired a shot,” Vin says. “The hostages will say the same thing.”

“Mrs Valenzuela says she’ll try to visit me in the penitentiary,” the young man mutters, shaking his head in amazement. Then he lies down on his cot and his lips keep moving, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in some sort of dialogue with himself.

Vin makes a little grimace, stands up and grabs his jacket. “I’ll go to the hotel, get us somethin to eat. Then we can toss a coin or somethin, and one of us can go home and get a few hours’ sleep.”

Chris puts his cigar out in the empty beans can he and the sheriff use as an ashtray. “Wait a minute.” He points to the chair on the other side of the table. “Sit down.”

Vin blinks, but complies. Chris looks down at his hands. The thoughts that have been lurking at the back of his mind for weeks need to be pushed out and faced, and maybe the best time for it is now, when there isn’t anything else on their minds and their defences are down.

“I know some facts about you,” he says flatly. “You grew up on a farm. You’re good and fast with rifles and handguns. You’ve been a shotgun guard, a bounty hunter and a hired gun.” He pauses, chooses his words carefully. “Fine. These are facts. But they don’t add up to a story.”

Vin’s eyes narrow. “A story? You want to know my story, right now?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “And yeah, right now, because no time is ever the right time, and sooner or later each of us may go his own way, or one of us may die.” He sees the unvoiced question in Vin’s frown. “Because you already know my story. Most of it anyway. And because I want to know what led you to make your choices.”

Vin stares at him for a long moment, then takes off his jacket and hat. “All right.”

He closes his eyes, then reopens them. “Choices,” he grinds out, and rakes a hand through his hair, hard. “You’re born on a prairie settlement in Nebraska, you ain’t got any. You’re a boy, you get to be a farmer. You’re a girl, you get to be a farmer’s wife. And on Sundays you go to church, and hear the pastor tell you that all mankind is sinful, and we must be on the lookout for temptation, and our goal in life is not to be happy, but to do as you’re told.” He stands up, takes a few paces up and down, goes back to the chair, straddles it and glares at Chris.

“And so you left,” Chris says quietly. He has always suspected, no, _known_ , that beneath Vin’s cool, easy-going manner there is a banked fire, ready to flare up. 

“You bet I did. At fifteen. Worked in barns, in stables. Worked for the railroad, met drovers at the railhead, drove herd.” Vin grabs both ends of the bandana around his neck, pulls them one way, then another. “And then someone finds out you’re good with a gun and pays you to shoot it. And then someone else does. And then you’re a hired gun. Mothers pull their kids away from you. Nice girls won’t even look at you. And if anyone offers you an honest job, you don’t want it, because there’s no excitement in it.” The fire begins to burn out: Vin lowers his voice. “And you start wonderin if you could have done things different, but by then it’s too late to go back. So you keep driftin, and not goin anywhere.” He stops to catch his breath. “I don’t need to tell _you_ any of this. So why…”

“Because now we’re making other choices.” _We_ is a dangerous word, it could mean too many things. Vin is eight or ten years younger than Chris, he may not see things this way, he may decide to start drifting again. “I …” That’s easier, safer. “I want to know what happens next.”

“Right.” Vin stands up again, walks to the window and leans against it. He looks out for a while, then addresses the windowpane. “So you get somewhere where there’s a chance of a new start. And it’s kinda right, because you’re with someone you kinda want to be with, you have each other’s backs.” He slowly turns around. “And you start dreamin, just like you did in the Mexican village. Get out of Mrs Monaghan’s dump, buy your own place. Maybe a little spread, somewhere away from town. Somewhere with a barn, a well, a couple corrals. If they ain’t there, you could build ‘em. And you dream of breedin horses, of havin a pasture for cows.”

Vin’s fire is going out. He licks his lips, looking just as tired as he was after the shootout at the shack. “But you don’t want to do that on your own. And you wait a while before askin, and then wait some more, and the longer you wait, the harder it gets. Until you start thinkin that there’s no point in askin, and that movin on might be easier.” He shrugs. “End of story. Happy now?”

Chris shakes his head. “No. You left a couple of things out.”

Vin makes an interrogative noise, cocking his head to one side, a wary squint fighting against the beginnings of a grin. 

“One, a windmill that pumps water into a water tower. Easier for the house and the stable. And two, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t got any secret stashes of money. We …” he finds a cigar, spits out the tip, concentrates on getting it lit properly, “need to plan carefully. To choose between horses and cattle, at first.”

Vin grins broadly, his eyes are wide, full of sparks. He gets up, goes to stand behind Chris, puts his hands on Chris’s shoulders and leaves them there, warm through Chris’s shirt; their light pressure is as satisfying as the moments when they give and take pleasure at night. “If that’s your taste,” he says, low, suggestive.

“Get lost,” Chris laughs, without turning. “Go get us something to eat. And,” he jerks his thumb in the direction of the cell, “don’t forget our guest.” 

“Will do, partner.” Vin puts on jacket and hat, tips his hat at Chris in mock salute, and goes out. Chris gazes at the darkness outside the window, takes a long pull on his cigar, and tries to plan the immediate future. They must talk with the sheriff and Steve about temporary deputies. They must fix the roof, and get Mrs Monaghan to share the costs. They can open an account at the bank. 

As his right-hand man – his _partner_ – once put it, way back in the Mexican village, they have fallen into the same trap.

He stretches his legs under the table and blows out a perfect smoke ring. Whichever way one looks at their situation, it’s about the time they’ve got left. Either they have wasted half their lives drifting, and time’s beginning to run short. Or – maybe – they still have nearly half of their lives ahead of them, and that’s time enough.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Trap, indeed.


End file.
